


Creek Blues

by ko_drabbles



Series: Teen Idle - a series of Kyoya-centred song fics [2]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anger, Cotard delusion if you squint, Depression, Lots of death stuff here, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Paranoia, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 20:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16899138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_drabbles/pseuds/ko_drabbles
Summary: Kyoya has some issues. A Kyoya without Tamaki, who never met the idiotic, amazing blond... Well, it's not worth thinking about.He'snot worth thinking about.





	Creek Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Creek Blues by Nicole Dollenganger.

_Pills eat through you like acid burning holes_

_Through your head, your mind, your bones and enamel_

_Handcuffed to the bed like you’re an animal_

_I don’t even recognise you anymore_  

* * *

 

Kyoya stared at himself in the mirror, analysing every shadow and blemish that marred his pale skin, poking and prodding at his own face. He looked sick, the pills shedding what little weight he had and thinning him out into something fragile. He looked how he felt, all too fittingly. His black hair hung limp and messy, getting into his red-rimmed eyes and making it hard to see.

He liked it that way, sort of. It was hard to like anything about what he saw these days, but he could trick himself into thinking it was all okay when he couldn't see it. Like they say - out of sight, out of mind. This version of messy looked like it was purposeful; baggy hoodies and jeans with cigarette burns, trying to tell himself that the hot ash in his lungs made it all bearable. He didn't smoke often, and only one or two at a time, but it rubbed a soothing balm over his frayed nerves. It was some sort of simulated steadiness.

He grimaced slightly as he popped his pill from its package, studying it with a dead-eyed stare before swallowing it down, dry. Weren't these things supposed to fix all this? Perhaps he needed something different, or a higher mg, or maybe he was just meant to be so fucking numb and sad all the time.

The only times he was close to happy were when he was doing things he just _shouldn't_. Smoking, sharing nicotine stained kisses with Umehito as the handcuffs bit into his thin wrists, toes curling into the mattress and gasps and moans mingling with the occasional creak of the wooden bed-frame. Good boys didn't do those things, but they made him feel the most alive he had in a while, his nerve endings on fire and every colour and smell so vibrant.

It wasn’t like the pills, which ate through his emotions and his brain, leaving him a shell. It was exhilaration, the thrill of casting his sense of self away for a while. It wasn’t like it was all rose-tinted bliss, of course not; he had a sense of guilt, he knew how people would react if they knew, and so he kept it a closely guarded secret. It was okay, and it helped both Umehito and himself.

But despite both his medication and the ones he prescribed for himself, it never helped his reflection. It kept changing, kept getting more and more miserable, the shadows under his eyes only making the slight jut of the bony socket look even more pronounced.

* * *

_Try to put you down like an old dog to sleep_

_Cut your branches off but you’re a dying tree_

_The doctors came and pulled the sheet up over your head_

_You’re already dead, you just don’t know it yet_

* * *

Sitting in the seat in the middle of the classroom, not too far forward but not too far back, he had to wonder if he was just dead, wandering through this ghostly facsimile of life in some effort to… what? Find some sense of inner peace? Or perhaps he was just stuck in this hellish limbo. It would make sense, with how quiet and isolated he seemed to be from every other person. Teachers stopped calling on him but didn’t ask questions as his grades weren’t bad – yet. His classmates never really bothered with him anyway, but it was like they couldn’t even see him.

It was almost like the soft flesh of his face rotted away, leaving bone and scraps of ashen, discoloured skin. Everything was disintegrating, turning green and black and viscous. Nothing worked as it should, his lungs clogged with tar, his stomach shrivelled, tongue unable to taste anything but the sharp sourness of bile. For all intents and purposes, he was dead.

Maybe that’s what the pills really did. Maybe it was the doctors trying to just end his suffering, letting him rot away painlessly, no one noticing. He hated that no one saw, but he’d just hate it more if he made anyone concerned over someone as ultimately unimportant and inconsequential as himself. The pills were supposed to put him down, but it just elongated the process into something more painful as everyone recited the same phrase – “for the good of your health”.

When the bell rang, he didn’t hesitate. His satchel was thrown over his shoulder and his feet were pounding against the polished floors. Paranoia swirled in his head, and it was all just too _loud_. Students talking, laughing, yelling. It pounded against his head and pushed cotton through his ears. Everything felt so **much** , and it was impossible to escape.

“Kyo -”

He barely registered Kanan’s voice as he ran passed her, head turned away and hair in his face. He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to talk to _anyone_ ; he just needed Umehito’s shoulder and nicotine kisses, and he’d be calm again. He kept the noise out of his head, turning it to blissful static.

* * *

 

_You are sick and I hate you and love you for it_

_You’re a wreck but I’m always going to want you_

* * *

 

Umehito’s fingers wrapped around the cigarette as daintily as some early twentieth century starlet, appearing in the glamorous Hollywood films his grandmother liked. His own was in a slack hold, the seat of his trousers getting dirty from the filth on the step, arm resting on his knee like some wannabe punk. It clashed with his mostly neat uniform, the usually tidy hair, and his bookish glasses.

Their thighs touched, pressed into the tight space to avoid the teachers, neither wanting their reputations on the line. Gum and body spray helped mask it, but it meant nothing they were caught red-handed, or yellow-fingered. The smoke burned in his chest and settled the spiral of thoughts his mind tried to drag him into, and that’s what mattered. After all, it was better than breaking down in the bathroom or lashing out at other students like some cornered animal.

Umehito knocked their shoulders together, giving him a smile as the butt of his cigarette was ground into the concrete. “Do you feel better?” He asked, hood slung low, only half of his eyes visible. It wasn’t that bright out, clouds obscuring the light in thick layers of dark grey, promising rain. Maybe even a storm, thunder and lightning crashing furiously.

They made him feel odd, some paradoxical mix of serenity in the centre of it and violent waves of emotion, it was as stable as the rest of him – not at all.

He stood, brushing off his trousers and dropping his cigarette to the ground, not even bothering to stamp it out. Instead, he moved so seamlessly that he could’ve sworn he glided through the damp air, head tilted to the sky. Of course, Umehito followed him with that worried expression on his face, but he didn’t pay much attention until only one step separated him from the sheer drop down from the roof, his brains splattered across the gravel pathways.

“Hey,” He began, eerily calm, and he could almost feel the dread that stiffened his boyfriend’s shoulders, “If I were to jump right now, would you cry?”

Umehito breathed out sharply, but not at all surprised, something strained in the back of his throat. He shook his head, a hand reaching towards him but not touching, too frightened to push him too far, too hard, and send him tumbling down. “You know I would,” Was the sad, almost watery reply, “I’ve told you before.”

“I wouldn’t cry for me, I’d laugh and spit on my corpse – good riddance,” Kyoya thought but didn’t say, taking Umehito’s hand as he stepped down from the ledge.

* * *

 

_I hate to see the knife always under your arm_

_Alone at night, cutting up neighbourhood dogs_

_You snuck me to your daddy’s bedroom_

_Showed me all his guns_

_You said, “Careful or you’ll blow your head off_

_Make sure the safety’s on”_  

* * *

 

Umehito’s staring at him incredulously, almost as if he sprouted a second head. The pistol that lay between them was black, basic, barely catching the light; it almost looked like a toy. Of course, being so thin and delicate, there was no way that Kyoya could win in a hand to hand fight, so it was dealt with and a solution was found. Only to be used in dire circumstances, of course, and only if one of the bodyguards weren’t there. Scream first, shoot later. But it was intriguing all the same.

He picked the gun up once more, a small quirk to his lips as he felt the weight in his hands and just took in the situation. Umehito looked almost horrified at the reveal, which he supposed made sense, those kissable lips opening and closing without a single word.

“For self-defence,” He clarified, shifting position slightly so he could take his weight off his legs, knees bruised. All of him was black and blue, in fact, and they cropped up without warning. It was an odd thing, but he couldn’t be bothered to think on it much, “Of course, I don’t know if I really would use it. I mean… It’d be too easy to just let it all happen, wouldn’t it? Besides, if it really did get too much, I could just…”

He placed the gun against his temple, but it wasn’t even half a second before Umehito wrenched it out of his hands. He was so concerned, so determined to keep him in this tenuous connection he had to his life. It was cruel, and he knew it, but it helped him feel as if he wasn’t as useless as he thought. That he really would be missed.

“Relax. The safety’s on.”

* * *

 

_Leaving things to die in the mud at the creek_

_Pumping shotgun slugs out into the trees_

_You run your fingers on the wood and feel its bullet holes_

_It gives you something I could never give you or ever really know_

* * *

 

Umehito just watched him as he loaded the handgun, aiming and firing the entire round into the bark of an old tree. He could tell that he wasn’t happy with this, standing in the shade with his arms crossed under his robe, but if he was that uncomfortable then he could leave. He never made him come after all, and the recent attitude Umehito had towards his actions was mostly “if it doesn’t hurt anyone, then it’s okay”.

He was just some kid who kicked out under pressure, like a stubborn mule. He’d punch and bite and kick, he’d get angry and scream, but it was all inside his head. It was all just violent fantasy that would be realised as he shot out the bullets into something that couldn’t feel. The trees just took the gunshot wounds and didn’t cry out at all, because they didn’t have a mouth. Meanwhile, his was just forced shut.

He walked forwards, shoes slipping slightly in the mud and wet leaves, examining the tan flesh the peaked out from the greyed bark. The bullet ripped straight through it, and as he ran his fingertips around the holes, he could feel the sharp sting of splinters, and he pushed a little harder, embedding them in his skin. He didn’t know why, an impulse like the one Junji Ito portrayed in Amigara Fault. An impulse you can’t explain, that won’t have a good end, but you’re still compelled to. He was oddly impulsive these days.

* * *

 

_You are sick and I hate you and love you for it_

_You’re a wreck but I’m always going to want you_

* * *

 

Laying in bed, surrounded by the soft covers and Umehito’s warm arms, he felt guilt. He knew he wasn’t the boyfriend he could be, that wasn’t deserving of someone’s love, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help but spill his guts and vomit words that left a sharp sting in his throat and a bad taste in both of their mouths. He worried him and relished in it, thrived of it, like a parasite.

The thing to do would be change, or failing that, leaving. But he couldn’t do either, because ultimately, he was too sick and too selfish. Too damaged. He couldn’t mend it, not at all, and he didn’t even try.

Instead, he just nuzzled closer, Umehito’s heartbeat in his ears. His voice was soft. “You know I love you, right?”

No answer.

* * *

_And I don’t want to know what you’ve done_

_Or what you think about doing_

_I don’t want to know, so don’t tell me_


End file.
